The woman was saying, “Why were you in the trunk of a car? That sounds silly.”
A softer voice answered, but I couldn't hear Bell's words.
The woman continued, “How long were you in the trunk? Were you scared?”
My hand shaking, I backed away two steps. They'd found me. Social workers were in there with Bell, and soon they'd take her away.
I clutched my stomach and doubled over, nearly throwing up. My heart was beating so rapidly, I thought I might die right there of a heart attack. I dropped to my knees, my hands on the blue carpet.
Then I heard a peal of laughter. I shuffled back to the door and pressed my ear against it.
The woman said, “Yes, Taylor, you may have a glass of water. Here, let me help you find a cup in here. Looks like Bell's mother is a little behind on the kitchen work, but I'll wash one out for you.”
With a shaking hand, I unlocked the door.
A woman with a halo of blond curls and black-framed glasses stood in my kitchen, washing out a glass.
“You must be Aubrey,” she said. “Your grandmother had to do an important errand.” She gave me an eyebrow-raise to imply there was more information.
Bell was sitting at the table with another little girl, and they were both coloring in a book Bell hadn't previously shown any interest in.
The woman nodded for me to follow her, so I did—to my own bedroom. I kicked some dirty laundry to the side as I flicked on a light.
“Your grandmother had to take your grandfather to the hospital,” she said. “Now, don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing.”
“He has Parkinson's.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, that's what she told me. I guess he fell, but he's going to be okay.”
I pulled my phone from my purse and saw the missed calls.
Feeling guilty about drinking, and being off with Sawyer when my family needed me, I mumbled, “I must have turned the ringer off to save the battery and forgotten to turn it on again.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It's okay, honey. None of us is perfect, and it looks like you're on your own.” She shook her head and lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry. That's not right of me to make any assumptions, but I didn't see any men's shoes at the door.”
“My husband's out of town a lot.”
“I understand.” She rubbed her hands together in a way that reminded me of one of my favorite teachers, a kind woman who took students snowshoeing on her own time every winter.
“Thanks for bringing Bell home and watching her,” I said. “Can I pay you for your time? Or… I could watch your daughter sometime, if you'd like.”
The woman smiled at me. “I'm Natalie. And my daughter is Taylor.”
I shook her hand. “Aubrey. And you know Bell, of course.”
“The girls have eaten, but I'd love a cup of tea.”
I wanted her to get the hell out of my apartment, but I also liked her, just a tiny bit. I did want to make some friends. Another woman was a much better idea than a guy, because misunderstandings like what had just happened with Sawyer were always bound to happen with guys. He'd tried to kiss me, I turned away, and that was the end of that.
“Tea,” I said, leading the way back out to the kitchen. “Let me wash a few cups. I don't usually leave all these dishes, but ...”
I stopped apologizing, because Natalie's face told me she didn't care about dirty dishes, and that she knew bullshit when she heard it.
We made cocoa for the girls, still happily coloring, and took our tea to the living room.
No sooner had we sat down than Natalie made a ragged inhaling sound I first mistook for the beginning of a sneeze. Dismayed, I watched as her eyes reddened and spilled out tears. I grabbed her some tissues and sat next to her, feeling helpless and uncomfortable. What the f**k?
I blew across my tea and sat quietly until she was breathing calmly and apologizing, dabbing at her eyes.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said again.
“Don't be sorry,” I said. “I won't tell anyone.”
“I have to apologize.” She grinned through the tears, which was one of the saddest expressions I'd ever seen. “It's a Canadian thing. You'll see. Live here a while longer and you'll find yourself apologizing to inanimate objects when you bump into them.”
“We'll see.” I blew over the hot tea and waited, my curiosity rising up. She was clearly upset, but was it my duty to ask her what was wrong? Or was it rude? I didn't like people making assumptions about me, and I didn't like them asking questions.
She said, “We need to sell the house, and I've been trying to frame this whole thing as an adventure, but the real estate agent came today, and now shit's real, you know?”
I sipped my tea and kept my face neutral. This woman actually had a house to sell and she wanted me to feel sorry for her?
She continued, “We were hoping to walk away, but after the commissions, even if we get our asking price, we'll have to cough up more money to cover the outstanding mortgage.” She cast an angry glance across the room, at the undecorated wall. “Screw my life. Dave thought he was Mr. Bigshot. Mr. Big Time. Vacations every year, leasing a new car all the time instead of buying one. And then all the custom wiring for his home theater.”
“Home theater?”
She shook her head and turned my way, her eyelids rimmed in red. “The agent says the theater devalues the house. We need to tear out the reclining chairs and rent or buy furniture to put in a proper family room. So people can imagine themselves there. Imagine themselves living their perfect lives in my house.”
“Hmm.” Part of me wanted to kick the woman out of my place, but another part of me enjoyed hearing about her problems. What's that saying? A change is as good as a rest.
She kept talking, telling me more about the custom renovations they'd done, and about her husband Dave's obsession with electronics.
I relaxed, enjoying my stint as a tourist in Natalie's “Horrible” Life.
Finally she stopped and said, “Screw my life, right?”
“I would have never guessed, Natalie. I just see you, with your cute little hipster glasses frames, and your nice jeans, and I assume you have it all figured out.” I then said the one thing I hated to hear: “I'm sure it's not so bad.”
She dabbed her eyes again, quiet. “Sorry for dumping on you. Most of my friends are so materialistic, and they're too busy planning their next renovation to even imagine having to scale back.” She hugged herself and looked around the room, at the thrift-store furniture I'd prettied up with colorful patchwork quilts, and Bell's collection of plastic toys arranged across the one shelf in the room. “Why don't you have a television?”